


Revisionary Tactics

by Rhinocio



Category: Jak and Daxter
Genre: Gen, Hello I'm here to be Contrary, I'm a one man AU machine, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-15
Updated: 2021-02-15
Packaged: 2021-03-17 12:34:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,085
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29471778
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rhinocio/pseuds/Rhinocio
Summary: Whatever bitter feelings Jak had about creating a time loop that ensured repeat trials and tribulations for him were cast aside for the good of the universe. Two months ago, he'd shipped his younger self off to the past, and thought that was the end of it.Evidence to the contrary sits swinging his legs and sipping grenadine from a straw, back in the future and a decade older than when Jak last saw him.
Relationships: Daxter/Jak
Comments: 16
Kudos: 23





	Revisionary Tactics

**Author's Note:**

> Jak and Mar not being the same person vis à vis the nature versus nurture argument is obviously what I was going for with this story, but fun fact: they’re _literally not the same person_ , because they were born in two different timelines. Jak sending Mar into the past didn’t create a time loop, it moved an alternate timeline Mar into an alternate timeline Sandover. You can find a whole diddly darn chart about the 3+ timelines the Jak II warp gate shenanigans actually caused here (and some related art [here](https://rhinocio.tumblr.com/post/643201572705386496/funniest-timeline-brings-about-less-funny) and [here](https://rhinocio.tumblr.com/post/643581612901220352/wild-and-crazy-inks-of-scenes-from-revisionary))!
> 
> Daxter in this fic has adopted both a potty mouth and the slang vocabulary of a brat who grew up in the 1990s and unfortunately I can’t find any reason for these things not to be on brand. 
> 
> As per always, comments and critiques (and long discussions about time travel) are always appreciated and encouraged!

Jak’s first thought when he sees the explosion in the sky is _metalheads._

Daxter then screams, “Aliens! They’ve finally found our backwater planet and it’s Armageddon for us now!”

They fly towards the plume of smoke viciously rising from the waterfront as fast as the engine of their zoomer will allow, narrowly dodging fleeing civilians and clipping an overpass support on the way. Jak leans forwards for the sake of aerodynamics; Daxter worms his way under Jak’s chin so his terrified screeching can serve as a siren. It’s a frustratingly crowded slalom after the long stretches of empty sand in Spargus. 

The murky scent of the water in the bay hits their noses just as the pungent smell of burning metal does. The cluster of blue uniforms set Jak’s sight, and he leaps from his vehicle closely enough that two of the Freedom League standing in a circle around the wreckage are knocked aside in his landing. 

Turns out the third guess is the charm; Jak stops short.

“Daxter?” he blurts, eyes immediately locked on a plume of red and blond hair and a preteen face that’s haunted his dreams for half a decade now.

“Jak?!” says the ottsel on his shoulder, nearly falling forward in his rush to point.

It must be a funhouse mirror they’re standing in front of, or the noxious gas of the explosion has done something to their heads – the two kids looking warily at them from ground zero are near-carbon copies of the two of them. One of the League soldiers speaks, but Jak doesn’t register the words. He’s stuck staring at all five-and-some feet of himself, barefoot and bright-eyed, with green hair shoved under a leather cap. A protective arm, unscarred and half as muscular, is attempting to hide a young Daxter from view – which is pointless, given the attention Daxter is bringing on himself with his anxious wailing.

Jak lifts a hand unconsciously to check that his best friend is still small and inhuman, and presses a handful of his oily fur closer. The ottsel makes a sound not unlike a wheeze, and collapses against his head in shock.

“Awright, what the heck’s goin’ on here?!” says one version of him, just as the other groans, “I’m gonna _murder_ that moldy old moss man!”

\- - - -

The drive to Freedom HQ is clumsy, between the clunky two-seater he’s unused to driving, the shaking of Jak’s hands, and the unsettling experience of watching himself and a human Daxter chatter from where they’re squashed together in the passenger seat. He can’t help glancing at them as he drives, and the surreal third-person perspective is doing strange things to his sense of reality. His best friend – still an ottsel, still very much unchanged – stays hunched around his shoulders the entire ride, as uncomfortable with the view as he is. They make it to their destination mostly without incident, though the younger Daxter bonks his head on the dashboard when Jak wrenches the vehicle to a sudden stop and the momentum throws him forward.

“Jeeze!” he moans, clutching his face and swatting away the younger Jak’s laughter, “Watch it, old man!”

“Sorry, Dax,” Jak says automatically, hopping out of the car and shoving his holopass against the door scanner. The kids scuttle up behind him, still griping; the ottsel on his back hums, “Geriatric at nineteen. Told’ja all the heroics would make ya go grey, pal.”

The kids are lead through the dimly-lit hallways of the HQ and into the elevator with single-minded efficiency; Daxter eggs them on as they dawdle behind, distracted by the unfamiliar design and lighting of the place. Jak catches his own expression in the silver metal at one point and cringes at his stoicism, so drastically contrastive to the open curiosity of his younger self’s gaping mouth and wide eyes. Kid Jak waves his hands in Kid Daxter’s direction, as if giving his instructions, and the latter agrees, “Yeah, it ain’t exactly Precursor copper, eh?”

“What’s that?” Jak can’t help asking, stiffly gesturing. “The thing you're doing with your hands.”

Young Daxter blinks at him like he’s stupid, and grunts, “None of your beeswax.”

He folds his arms and shuts his trap. The trip down the hall is a brisk one; Jak boots the doors of the war room (or what was once the war room) open, and the occupant, predictably, doesn’t flinch. There’s a whispered countdown in his ear by his ottsel friend of three and then–

“Jak, great, I need a runner to check in on– what the fuck’s with the kids?”

“ _The_ Kid,” Jak says, thrusting a hand out at his younger self, and summarily explaining everything. Torn’s face goes pale. He turns to one of the computer consoles, yanks open the cupboard below it, and pulls out a dark bottle. The drink he takes of it is considerable.

There’s a beat before he turns. “And the other one?”

“Yours truly,” Daxter sniffs.

“Precursors fucking help us,” mutters the former KG, throwing back the contents of the bottle back again, “There’s _two_ of them.” He sets the drink down with a hollow clunk and rubs a hand over his eyes. The stare he gives the fidgeting kids is prolonged. Undoubtedly he’s just as baffled by their presence, and just as concerned for what it means that the heir to the city that the Underground watched over for months and then shoved into a warp gate to the past has returned to the present – not as Jak, but as a separate entity entirely. Torn’s mouth opens and closes several times before he finally settles on, “We need to talk to the Shadow about this.”

“No kidding,” says Daxter, scurrying over the table and reaching for the alcohol himself. It says a lot about Torn’s mental state that he willingly passes it over. “Where’s Log Noggin at?”

“Out of town,” Torn grumbles, his eyes narrowing. It’s obvious the present company are the worst possible welcoming committee for these two time-warped kids, because that’s the extent of the conversation. Young Jak looks between the three of them with growing exasperation; Young Daxter eventually barks, “So what’s the big deal?! None of ya cranky farts have given us any idea of what’s goin’ here! Alls I know is some junky ol’ Precursor tech blasted us to kingdom come, and now we’re gettin’ toured around this industrial dump. Care to clear the air?!”

Torn throws the ottsel version of Daxter a withering look. Daxter shrugs.

Jak sighs. “Look, you two are just… in the wrong place at the wrong time.” 

“No duh!”

“So we’re trying to help you get... into the right time,” Jak grumbles, immediately hating his inexperience with words. He simplifies: “You’re not in Sandover anymore. This is Haven City. I’m Jak, that’s Daxter, he’s Torn.”

“ _I’m_ Daxter,” corrects the kid, thumping an impatient bare foot on the floor. 

“You’re a copycat,” hums the ottsel across the room, flipping his finger at his younger self. “This is gonna get confusin’, big guy. I vote we give the brat a nickname, pronto.” He paces across the computer consoles, muttering to himself. “Ain’t callin’ you anythin’ cutesy, that’s fer sure. ‘Dax’ ain’t gonna work either. How d’ya feel about ‘Punkass’?”

“Dax,” Jak sighs, rubbing the bridge of his nose. His younger mirror image makes an equally disgruntled noise.

“‘Little D’ has potential,” the ottsel snickers, then snaps his fingers. “Oh, whaddabout ‘Junior’? I’ve got age _and_ beauty on ya, kid, so the logic tracks.” He talks over the kid’s loud disagreement. “Shorten it down to ‘DJ’, for Daxter Junior.”

“Works for me,” says Jak, already on his way out the door.

“I’ll put a hiatus on the missions until we’ve got a plan,” Torn says tiredly, staring down the empty bottle Daxter left him and setting it aside to reach for another. “Where’re you headed? I’ll direct Samos your way.”

“Taken ‘em to my place,” says Daxter, leaping back onto the pauldron on Jak’s shoulder and already in sync with his thoughts. 

“Safer here,” Torn grunts, an offer made with clear reluctance. Haven may be free from its dictatorship, but it’s still in the midst of a war. Freedom HQ is one of the most fortified buildings in the entire walled city.

“Metalheads aren’t anywhere near the waterfront.” Daxter waves a hand. Neither of them want to stay at HQ if they can help it – no matter the colour of the armour or the purpose of the building, the chrome and company here are far too unsettling for a man who spent years in prison. The Naughty Ottsel, as well, isn’t all metal, and has at least one potted plant. Current Jak and Daxter like that – past them probably will too. 

\- - - -

Things become even more convoluted when Dax shows the kids his bar. 

Firstly, the younger version of him – no matter what he’s called – is still _Daxter_ , which is immediately evident in his flirting with the bartender and interest in the various containers behind the counter. One prolonged bout of argument and wrestling between ottsel and boy later, Tess herself gets involved. Her blunt, “Alright, sugar, you and Jakky sit down and I’ll whip you up a drink,” de-escalates the situation within moments. She winks when DJ tries to argue, adds, “I’ll add a little something special, just don’t tell Daxxie,” in a whisper, and that seems to be enough to placate him into leaving the alcohol alone.

Jak watches – Tess fills a shot glass with grenadine and makes a show of pouring it in an equally benign soda mix when Daxter isn’t looking. She’s nothing if not clever.

“His name ain’t Jak,” is something DJ makes a note of, once he and his friend pile into one of the booths by (predictably) the potted fern and await their beverages. The kid beside him makes a series of hand gestures, and DJ nods. “Just ‘cause I’m Daxter and the rat’s Daxter doesn’t mean my buddy Mar’s gonna be named the same as you.”

Tess sets a much harder drink in front of Jak. He flicks her a thankful smile and pushes it along the counter for Daxter to sip at instead. (He doesn’t drink much, and she probably made it more to the ottsel’s taste anyway.)

Jak doesn’t understand time travel. He and his friends had all trusted that Samos knew what he was talking about when he told them they had to send The Kid – Jak – _Mar_ into the past. They believed they’d somehow created a closed time loop and ensured that Haven City would always have a hero coming through to save it from destruction. Whatever bitter feelings Jak might have had about encouraging the loop – about sending the toddler that was apparently himself back in time, ensuring in the process that he too would be subject to the trial and torture of Baron Praxis’ future – were shoved aside. As far as it made sense to Jak, he wouldn’t exist at all if he didn’t get himself – get _Mar_ – from point B to point A.

Evidence to the contrary sits swinging his legs and sipping grenadine from a straw, back at point A and no worse for wear, if a decade older than when Jak last saw him two months ago. 

The front door hisses a split-second warning before a familiar face comes rushing through. It’s odd for Keira to be here, but information must have made its way down the grapevine one way or another, if the doppleganger holding her hand is any indication. Jak steals back his drink and buries his grimace in it. The mechanic shoves her goggles up and gasps, “Guys, we’ve got a problem!”

Daxter thrusts a hand pointedly at the kids in the corner, as if to say _There’s Problems Two and Three._

The Keira Jak knows, streaked with vehicle grease and with a blue mechanic’s suit shucked to her waist, gapes as the Keira he barely remembers lets go of her hand and rushes for her younger companions. Mar sits straighter as she reaches them; DJ pats her arm excitedly as she sits, demonstrating a camaraderie Daxter and the older Keira have never shared.

“What happened?” she asks faintly, looking to Jak for answers, like she always does.

“Your pops fucked up,” Daxter grunts.

Problem Four, as far as Jak is concerned, comes in the form of the googly eyes the younger Keira – henceforth nicknamed Kiki – keeps giving him. The crush Keira had once born for him flares to obvious life in her younger copy, as she keeps flicking glances his way and twirling her short hair around her fingers. Kiki’s attention is uncomfortable on its own, but doubly so for the disgruntled looks Mar keeps sending his direction, and triply for the way the adult Keira stands in the way, as if she’s her own competition.

Jak and Keira haven’t been on good terms since their initial reunion in Haven. Her defence of him now means next to nothing.

Daxter’s defence is much more bolstering.

“Hey, eyes down here,” he commands, snapping fingers in front of Kiki’s face and drawing her attention back to the table. The boys, if restless, are at least silent allies to the cause; DJ strikes up conversation as soon as Kiki looks back his way. He translates for the hand movements Mar makes, and they together drill the ottsel for details on the where, when, and why they’re in Haven. To his credit, Daxter doesn’t reveal much – his flippant conversation instead collects details for the adults present on what exactly went wrong.

“Look, I– _Mar_ –” DJ explains, slurring over alcohol he’s convinced he’s had, “May have possibly sort of bumped into the hunk of junk when we were climbin’ into it, awright? And the swirly orb thingie that tells it where to go _might_ have changed a little.”

“Daxter!” cry Keira and Kiki in tandem. Jak rubs his face. The time machine he rode to Haven had specific coordinates preset into it – the alteration to Mar’s clearly brought him and his friends to the wrong time entirely. If this is the same Mar the Underground protected, the same one Jak carted across the city and sent into a warp gate to the past, then are they both going to cease to exist? Did they break time? How does _any_ of this _work?_

Samos, the sage that raised Jak, and who also has a younger copy now somewhere in the city, blusters into the bar shortly after with great alarm. The kids jump to attention, and Kiki rushes to hug him. Daxter, still nursing his drink, takes great joy in the way the old green man nearly falls off his sandals in shock. 

But whatever advice or understanding Samos might have around what exactly is going on is drowned out by the chattering of two Daxters, and undermined by the panic of two Keiras. As far as Jak can tell, the old sage is as confused by the whole situation as the rest of them. Amid all the shouting, Mar quietly slips around the crowd and climbs up on a barstool next to Jak. While Jak can’t read his hands, his expression speaks volumes: _Is everything okay?_

“It’ll be alright, kid,” Jak sighs, though the reassurance feels fake on his tongue.

Problem Six arrives in a flash of metalhead armour.

\- - - -

“Don’t _touch_ me,” Jak barks, wrenching his arm free just as Sig lets him go. He backs up against the wall, nerves bristling at the sudden hostility from someone he considers a friend. Daxter’s voice carries from beyond the swinging door, too busy occupying the kids to rush to his aid; Tess glances through the flapping barrier with obvious concern, until she too is walled off. The crosstalk of the rest of the crowd becomes muffled, and their presence together in the narrow hallway suddenly feels clandestine. 

Sig’s expression is stone. “I’m only gonna ask you this once, cherry: who the hell is the kid out there?”

“Which one?”

“The quiet one.”

Jak considers his options – cornered, unarmed, a hundred pounds less burly – and asks testily, “Why do you care?”

“Could ask you the same thing,” says Sig, looming over him. His peacemaker thumps heavily on the floorboards. Their staring contest continues for a long moment, until the wastelander gives an inch; “I ain’t here to hurt him. Just gimme a name.”

There’s less than ten feet between Jak and the booth the kids are sitting at, and his dark eco reserves are full to the brim. He could take Sig out in that time if he needed to. “Mar.”

The deep, abrupt inhale Sig takes throws him off; the wastelander presses a palm to his eyes and curses under his breath. “Doesn’t make any goddamn sense,” he murmurs, more to himself than anything.

“Sig,” says Jak slowly, “ _Why do you care?_ ”

“Gonna ask you somethin’ crazy, cherry, and only ‘cause I seen you do some shit I ain’t ever thought was possible: is that kid supposed to be a baby?”

Jak pauses.

“Kind of, yeah,” he says, and Sig collapses forward onto his hands with a relieved prayer, forehead pressed to the butt of his gun like it’s the alter to an unseen god.

\- - - -

_Mar is Damas’ kid. Damas has a son._

Daxter doesn’t do well with the long flights to the Wasteland. Normally he chats Jak’s ears off, or takes his boredom out on rare additional passengers in the shuttle. This time he’s got a new and exciting subject, and an extra challenge in getting answers from someone who can only gesture yes and no.

“So what’s the deal with Daxter The Lesser?” he asks, clambering over Mar’s shoulders and knees as the mood strikes him. “You two brownnosers didn’t take any ill-advised eco baths? He didn’t ever get the orange and fuzzy treatment?”

Mar shakes his head, and then tilts it and points between Dax and himself. 

“Nah, kid, we ain’t the same person,” says the ottsel, throwing Jak a glance over his shoulder that says _Jeeze, this brat is sharp, huh?_ “Just wonderin’ if that was an inevitability of the namesake. S’pose you had more sense than this big lug when it comes to explorin’ dangerous places?”

Mar grins shyly and shakes his head. The bashfulness is unfamiliar; the spark of rebellion in his smile isn’t. 

_Damas has a kid named Mar. My name was Mar too._

Later, Daxter asks, “Heard ya got blasted out of Sandover – ya ever heard of Gol and Maia?” Mar nods. “Batshit eco sages gone wild?” Mar nods again, then abandons more complex gestures for an excited punch to his own hand and point to his own chest. “What, you fought those looney toons yourself?”

“Heard those buggers got themselves roasted with a bunch of light eco.” Sig tries to look thoughtful, but the expression is fought off by the smile that’s been pasted on his face since he and Mar were formally introduced. He’d been searching for the kid on Damas’ behalf for years, and though Jak hasn’t fully explained how he’s connected to the time travel that made Mar older, Sig seems contented enough with the fact that the kid is hale and whole. 

Mar waves his hands at himself again, proudly miming his heroics. He stands up and strikes at invisible opponents, points at Daxter and mimes hiding. Jak bites the inside of his cheek, heart aching at the idea that the sages he defeated in his youth could have been taken out without the collatoral of Daxter’s transformation. 

Daxter seems to sense his discomfort, and flicks a smile his way.

“A big pit of the dark stuff, huh?” Sig asks, when Mar’s story reaches its climax. He describes with charades the Precursor silo he fought his enemies atop, and how he and the four sages used light eco to defeat them. Jak grips at his own elbows, pressing down the frustration that sparks under his skin. 

_Mar is me. We used to be the same kid. I used to be that kid._

He doesn’t realize he’s spiralling until Daxter jabs his side and startles him. The bristling negative feelings gain form as black lightning, zipping along his arms and into the metal of the ship. It isn’t a large arc – Daxter yelps at the contact, but isn’t hurt, and no holes are punched in the vehicle – but it’s enough that Mar notices, and enough that he can catch it.

Jak stares as his younger self carelessly, _easily_ holds a bubble of dark eco in his palm.

Sig curses and leans forward, halfway to swatting the stuff out of the kid’s hands. Daxter hums thoughtfully. Mar studies the energy with cautious curiosity, glances up at Jak, and then carelessly, _stupidly_ tries to absorb it.

“Kid, don’t–!” 

Mar cries out at the sharp sting of the eco, ripping his hand back as it’s burned. He stumbles back into the bench seat, falling sideways as the transport turns, and yips again as the loose sphere of black static rolls into his bare foot. 

Jak lunges, and the eco rushes to him, skittering across the floor and oozing back through his skin like sludge back to a swamp. He looks up from his kneeling position on the floor and meets the alarmed eyes of himself. 

_That was me. That is me. That’s who I was before all– before I was **this.**_

“Jeeze, kid, anybody ever teach you not to play with fire?” Daxter says casually, stepping in front of Jak and shoving him back towards his seat. He hops back onto Mar’s knees, blocking him from sight. “I could’a told ya how much that shit stings! C’mere, show me your battle wounds.”

They settle out on the sand dunes, and Mar looks immediately for water – Jak almost laughs at how relatable that is, expecting surf to go along with the endless grit of the desert. But bitterness is still sitting heavily in his chest, and it pushes the humour down.

_Mar and me are the same person._

The transport begins to leave, but has to stop and re-land as a stowaway makes himself known. Daxter launches into a round of exasperated commentary as DJ throws himself from the passenger’s side of the vehicle, having hid behind the chairs for the entire long journey, adamant that he was _not_ going to be left behind in some garbage steel city while his best bud was kidnapped to even-less-familiar territory. Sig isn't pleased, but Mar beams, and the elaborate fistbump he and DJ share solidifies how relieved he is to have a familiar face at his side. 

_Damas has a son. Mar is the prince of Spargus._

The kids goggle at everything about the Wasteland city, pointing out ever-stranger features with flapping hands or raised voices. They both grin viciously when Sig suggests they might someday be allowed to drive one of the sand buggies as they walk through the vehicle bay, and DJ slaps Mar’s arm excitedly when he notices the distant ocean shoreline. 

Jak can understand that excitement – Spargus is more a home to him than any place since Sandover. It isn’t the tropical paradise he grew up in, but the kingdom was built by the hands of people left to die and determined to survive. Its clay buildings are shaped like kilns, with thick walls and sturdy foundations, but colourful banners and flags hang between them, solely to speckle the city with character. The smell of roasting meat and cooking bread wafts through the streets, and cactuses peek out from every corner, dressed as much in flowers as they are spikes. 

Here, the citizens don’t look at Jak with fear and awe. They don’t demand the extraordinary of him, or throw him into battles they wouldn’t fight themselves. The man in charge looked upon everything Jak was twisted into by dark eco and called it _useful._

Mar doesn’t harbour the anger and darkness that Jak does, but if the kid has any sort of brains in his head, he’ll prefer Spargus over Haven too.

“C’mon, kiddo,” Sig laughs, the warmth in his voice at stark odds with his dangerous appearance; the grin he wears has never looked more relaxed. “You too, cherries. We got a king to see.”

_Mar is Damas’ son._

The outdoor elevator crawls up its shaft, slower with the weight of several bodies, and creaks to an abrupt stop at the landing that leads to the throne room. Sig rests an encouraging hand on Mar’s back and steps out. 

The king, folded upon the massive chair at the center of the room, stands in one sharp movement. His forehead folds into deep creases, his eyes flickering between Sig and the child at his side.

Sig explains what he knows. If either of the young dopplegangers are surprised by the fact that they’ve travelled through time, they cover it well – only once does Mar glance back, frowning at Jak as though he’s done something wrong. They may have once looked alike, but their similarities aren’t so obvious now; no connection is drawn between the quiet boy in the leather cap and the brooding man with the ottsel at the back of the room.

_Mar is the prince of Spargus._

Damas falls to a crouch, his hands gripping at Mar’s elbows and face painted with streaks of water. He asks a series of firm questions regarding their arrival in Haven and history in Sandover, reading the kid’s face and nodding intently at DJ when he translates the more elaborate movements of Mar’s hands. The tremble in the king’s arms is visible even from a distance. The shy smile on Mar’s face grows, slowly warming to the idea that this place was once his home, and this man was once – is still – his father.

Jak keeps back, his arms tightly wrapped over his chest and his vision narrowed to the faces of parent and child before him. Daxter, uncharacteristically quiet, spools himself around the back of Jak’s neck. His paws knead at the skin hidden by Jak’s scarf, a subtle motion to keep him steady.

“C’mon, babe,” whispers the ottsel, “Ya gotta say something.”

_Mar and me are the same person._

“I can’t,” says Jak.

_Damas is my father._

\- - - -

After consultation with Samos, who should have known better, Onin, who suggested the time travel plan in the first place, and then Vin, who – maybe moreso, now that he’s a computer – is just smart, the general consensus is that everything is probably fine.

“This is the path that fate took, and so it is the path that was meant to be,” says the seer via her translator, when Jak and Daxter make a speedy visit to her tent in the bazaar.

“If you and he are both still here, the timeline must be stable,” reasons Samos, surprisingly blasé despite his new duplicate daughter.

“Who _authorized_ this?” asks Vin’s giant transparent floating tech-face, exasperatedly zipping between ever more screens covered in numbers. “The time-space continuum isn’t just made of a singular track! _Obviously_ things were changed from the moment you were thrown back in time, providing you were the first time traveller.”

“Obviously,” repeats Daxter, whirling his finger beside his head.

“You came from a time where the wasn’t any future Jak to meet! Of course you weren’t going to create a loop,” Vin says, which absolutely doesn’t track to either of his guests. He eventually notices Jak’s raised eyebrow, and decides to elaborate. “Okay, you came from timeline one, which we’ll call the No Jak Timeline.” A holoscreen pops into life in front of Jak’s face, with a long line illustrated on it. Daxter immediately questions the name. “There wasn’t an adult Jak there for the child Jak to meet and be sent back in time by. Mar – the kid who’s here now – came from what we’ll call the Jak Timeline. He was sent back to the past by your actions, and you defeated Kor, right?”

“Right,” says Jak slowly, watching a second line appear.

“Assuming the No Jak Timeline was lost – destroyed by the metalheads, never again seen by its time travelling hero–”

“Why would we assume that? What if _this_ is that timeline?” 

Vin’s face swoops immediately into his personal bubble, and Jak fumbles backwards and into a beeping computer console. “Are you listening?! Open your weird pointy ears, Jak! There was no adult Jak in the timeline you came from, and so you couldn’t be the kid you sent back! And if there _was_ no hero for the first timeline, then it’s highly probable that Haven was overrun! Its existence and all the people in it were ended! Nixed! Finito! Gooses of all kinds were cooked!”

“‘Weird ears’?” Jak mutters.

“They hook at the ends,” Daxter explains, tracing the shape over his own furry ones.

“So!” Vin shouts, drawing their attention back, “You’re from the No Jak timeline, and ended up here, in the Jak Timeline. You sent Mar to the past, but because he began in a different time, he can’t return to the same one you started in! Following?”

“Not at all.”

“And then, because Mar began his past experience in a _third_ time, which we’ll call the Mar Timeline, there appears a multitude of options for his time travelling to the future!” Vin’s explosive energy quiets as he muses, “It’s highly unlikely that he’d return to his original timeline upon using the rift gate, and much more probable that he’d just warp further forward into the Mar Timeline and rescue a different future Haven City from a different metalhead threat, but it’s possible that that timeline didn’t _have_ metalheads, in which case…”

In the end, Jak is no less confused about the situation than he was before, but has learned at the very least that it’s unlikely he’ll one day suddenly cease to be.

“Praise the bug-eyed Precursors, my pillow won’t go poof in the night,” Daxter says when they crash in one of the back rooms of the Naughty Ottsel, and that officially closes the discussion.

Hearing that Mar and DJ will be henceforth living in Spargus is a great relief to Torn, who had been bracing himself for the constant presence of his greatest antagonist, multiplied and de-aged. Kiki – and by proxy, Keira – is less pleased to hear she’s going to be staying put in Haven City, but Jak explains the battle-based residency system in Spargus, and that’s enough to dissuade Samos from ever letting either of his daughters into the vicinity.

“Imagine the _vehicles,_ though,” laments the elder of the girls, laying her head on the workbench and rhythmically tapping it with a wrench.

“Imagine the _value of living another day,_ ” counters Daxter, which is the first thing he and the green eco sage have ever been in agreement over.

“What about Daxter?” asks Kiki, her knees hugged to her chest, “ _My_ Daxter?”

“What about’m?” snorts the ottsel, digging through a nearby toolbox just to see what’s inside. He flashes Jak an eyeroll, as if he can’t believe what he’s hearing. “They’re stayin’ together.”

“Then I want to be there too! I’ll kick butt! Or– or I’ll build something so cool they have to let me in!” 

Keira turns her wary eyes from Kiki to Jak, and asks, “What kind of place makes kids fight for entry?”

Jak bristles. His city values survival, not slaughter. No child is permitted to fight in Spargus’ arena until they’re of age – a stipulation Damas added upon his ascension to the throne – and children born in Spargus never have to, as long as they can prove their usefulness in other ways. Jak has known Daxter for nearly twenty years, and if DJ is anything like him, he’ll have no problem exhibiting a bizarre variety of self-taught skills that will make him worth the city’s while. Kiki, he has no doubt, would have even less trouble proving her value to the kingdom, given her skill with machines.

But a selfish part of Jak doesn’t want to share the city he’s made his home with the girl who broke his heart. 

Daxter covers for him: “An oven-hot, barren sandbar full of extremist meatheads who wouldn’t know a bath if y’dunked them stinky pits first into it. Sure, they got cars, but you’d be pickin’ the gore ‘n viscera off every time y’wanted to stick yer wrench into the works. Oh, and hope you like sleepin’ on the floor, wearin’ the same clothes fer days on end, and sandblastin’ the inside of yer nose every time y’go outside. Trust me, sweetheart, it ain’t worth the effort.” 

Kiki tucks her frown into her arms. “They’re still gonna come visit, though, right?”

Maybe Mar would reassure her – as Jak himself would have just a few years ago – but now he doesn’t know. Spargus didn’t spit in his face when he appeared before it, blackened by two years of prison. Keira did.

“‘Course they will,” says Daxter, ruffling her hair. “Just don’t be surprised if they’re a little rougher ‘round the edges when they do.”

Jak might be reluctant to share the desert kingdom with certain people, but Daxter – and DJ, by proxy – aren’t among the number. Besides, by the very adamant command of his best friend Mar, DJ is now as much a child of Spargus as the prince himself. As far as Jak can tell, Damas took the second boy under his care alongside his son, and has already grown fond (and tired) of him. He’ll be safe there, and he’ll be provided for, and it’ll be good for him, to grow up with some kind of parental figure on his side.

Half of Jak is elated that the boy he’s loved all his life will be treated well this time around.

The other half, restlessly waiting out the nights by rubbing circles into the fur of the Daxter who’s spent nearly half his life as an animal, is viciously, furiously jealous.

\- - - -

The light eco helps.

Having a contrast of power inside of him, a white to the black of the dark eco, soothes something Jak didn’t realize was still bristling. The monster that constantly claws at the back of his mind relaxes, and the burn of anger he’s carried since he arrived in this future finally turns from bonfire to ember. 

Daxter notices immediately; “Yer lookin’ better, big guy.”

“I _feel_ better,” says Jak.

The challenges pushed in his direction never end – Jak is always being sent out on new missions, driven to complete new tasks and succeed in new competitions. Haven City continues to fight its bloody war against what’s left of the metalhead forces; Spargus demands ever more of him, even and especially after Jak fights his final arena battle and gains full citizenship. He is tired, and frustrated, and always a step away from telling everyone to figure their own problems out and leave him the hell alone.

The light eco helps with that, too. It pushes the irritation farther down, builds a greater shield for his worn patience. It even calms the envy he feels every time he sees Mar, though it does little to stop the wistfulness – Mar is the version of him that never saw prison, or murdered, or threw away his morals for the sake of revenge. Mar is the hero the deepest parts of Jak wishes he still was.

And he _likes_ Jak, despite all odds.

He seeks Jak and Daxter out whenever they’re in the city, perches in wait for them atop buildings and laughs when they spot him. He shoves toys into Jak’s hands to invite him to play, waves when they leave in any of the sand buggies. Damas has to shoo the boy out of the throne room during several briefings, though always with a certain amount of fond reluctance; Mar keeps standing at Jak’s side before the throne and mimicking his posture, pretending he’s a wasteland warrior too. 

Mar leaves, but gestures broadly at both his father and Jak as he goes.

“It’s his way of talkin’,” DJ finally explains one day, leaning back on his hands and tilting his freckled face into the ocean breeze. “Mar doesn’t like usin’ his voice, so he makes pictures with his hands.”

“And you know all the pictures?” Jak asks softly.

“‘Course I do, he’s my best pal,” the kid snorts. He’s a frightening perfect copy of Daxter, and watching him speak – here, this young and in _Spargus_ of all places – is still unsettling. “Nobody else really gets it, but Keira’s pretty good with the signs Mar uses most.” He pauses, and gives Jak a long, sideways look. There’s a protective jealousy in DJ’s eyes. “Pro’lly would like it if you ‘n the ugly rat knew what he was sayin’.”

“Can you teach us?” is the only question Jak can ask.

Daxter, to no surprise, catches onto the hand sign vocabulary with lightning speed. Despite – or maybe because of – DJ’s antagonism, he’s soon signing profanities back just as fast as they’re thrown at him. Jak has a harder time teaching his hands the motions, though he follows the conversation easily enough. It startles him again, this sudden divergence between the two sets of them – Mar and DJ talk with their hands. Jak and Daxter speak with their expressions.

“Ya don’t move yer face at _all,_ though!” DJ argues, when they finally slip up and mention that Jak was once mute too. “How’d anyone understand ya?”

Daxter’s tail taps his hip. Jak releases the tense breath he didn’t realize he was holding, and clumsily signs, _I used to._

Mar gives him a long, curious look. It’s the first of many.

Several weeks and many, many silent conversations later, the kid catches his arm and says, _Can I ask you something?_

They’ve been running themselves ragged all over the wasteland, searching for ancient artifacts and chasing corrupt politicians through crumbling tunnels. Daxter is little more than a scarf around Jak’s neck, limp and exhausted. The bandages on Jak’s arm itch. The dark eco deep inside him thrashes, its levels unequal with the light.

“Sure, kid,” Jak grumbles, “Shoot.”

Mar draws his chest up and his eyebrows down, and his eyes flash in the gold of the setting sun. His hands move slowly and deliberately, and Jak chokes as he asks, _Are you me?_

For all the light eco takes the edge off his resentment, the dismissal Jak gives the kid is still a mean one.

\- - - -

He suspects that the whole timeline conundrum will resolve with the end of the world. 

The more involved he becomes with the monks of the Precursor temple and the artifacts they guard, and the more the ancient remnants of the Precursors themselves bless and warn him, the more Jak is sure that there is some kind of time loop, and it’s going to close with him.

“Maybe Mar’s the me who was supposed to be here,” he muses tiredly, rewinding fabric around a cut his stores of eco didn’t quite finish healing, “Both of us can’t stick around forever, right?”

Daxter stares at him from across the room, his paws dripping water from where they’ve frozen over the lip of the clay drinking vase. 

If Jak dies in this whole mess, then the poisoned part of him, the _dark_ part, dies too. The innocent version of him, the bright-eyed punk of a kid who took a holiday from the future and came back clean, must be the kid who’s supposed to stick around. He’ll have a good life, especially with two Daxters to watch his back. Jak waves a hand at the growing shadows of the room and mumbles, “You and the other Dax are different, so you’ll– yeah, that’ll be fine.”

“Jak?” Daxter says quietly, “Yer scarin’ me, buddy.”

He closes his eyes and slouches further against the clay wall, enjoying the way the warm stone rebuts his memories of the cold iron prison that once held him. His years-old scars stretch and twinge as he breathes. Somewhere far above them, the glowing of an alien ship draws closer, and he decides that yeah, he’ll take it out, and then the world – his friends – Daxter will be safe. It’s the last on a long list of things he was made a time traveller to fix, right? Doomsday’s gotta be the last thing.

He startles spectacularly as a ladle full of water – and the ladle itself – crashes directly into his face.

“Smarten the _fuck_ up!” Daxter shouts, already clambering onto Jak’s knees and raining hell upon him in the shape of tiny orange fists. The dark eco roars inside Jak’s chest, but surprise reins it back. “You think ya just get to quit on me like that?! After all I’ve done fer you?!”

“Dax–”

“Yer gonna just leave me to those brats?!” His short hair is given a sharp pull. “An entire lifetime of bein’ a hero and yer gonna give up ‘cause yer _tired?!_ Grow a set, pal, this ain’t the worst we’ve been through and it ain’t gonna be what takes ya out!”

The push Jak gives him is listless. “Mar’s already–”

“ _That kid ain’t you!_ ” Daxter roars, immediately climbing back onto him, claws pointedly digging into skin. He grabs Jak’s cheeks and forces their eyes to meet. “He’s not what you are and yer not what he is, alright?!”

“ _But I want what he has!_ ” Jak shouts, shoving the jealousy out and directly into Daxter’s face. It hurts, to see a version of him untainted and unbroken, one who gets to be a hero, and a son, and have a home he isn’t just a temporary traveller to. 

It kills him, to see that happy kid with a Daxter who’s still human.

The ottsel on his knees drops his grip. 

It hits him, suddenly – and much too late – that while Mar speaks in gestures, Jak has always, _always_ spoken in expressions.

“Yer a piece of fuckin’ work,” says his best friend, voice thick. Daxter hops down, grabs his goggles, and climbs out the window in the the night.

It’s not the end of the world, but a part of Jak still dies.

\- - - -

_Give me your gun,_ says the prince of Spargus, and Jak has only a moment to decide whether he wants to ruin his innocence a second time. He almost says no, almost tells Mar to hide and wait things out instead – but the city is under siege, and their– _Mar’s_ father is in danger, and if he doesn’t give the kid a way to defend those things then he knows he’ll just shove his hands in the nearest eco vent and use whatever comes out instead.

The gun is, in the end, the lesser danger.

“Be careful,” Jak hisses, setting the morphgun to its scatter mode and shoving it into Mar’s hands. 

_You too,_ Mar signs with one hand.

The carnage is widespread and chaotic, as the Dark Makers can apparently teleport, and bleed in the form of vapourous dark eco. Jak can hardly take a step without drawing the stuff into his lungs, and his internal reservoirs are overflowing with its angry crackle. He makes an executive decision to burn it before he has no choice.

“Get out of the way!” Jak calls at the Spargans in the street before him, and rips the last restraint he has on the eco open. Immediately the aliens turn towards him, drawn by the power of his transformation, but they’re far too slow. The horns have hardly broken through the meat of Jak’s skull by the time he’s eviscerated all of them. Their deaths only produce more eco, though, and so he runs, headlong and roaring and with claws bared into the next corridor.

A distant part of him hopes the locals take the hint and keep their distance, because he can’t tell the difference between ally and enemy like this. 

For a long, chaotic blur of several minutes, all Jak knows is the rage and bitterness of the dark eco, shrieking at him to make everything in his path pay for every time he’s ever been hurt. No matter how wide or tall the creature that catches his eye, Jak lunges, his fangs and sharp hands tearing. Occasionally he’s struck back, thrown a distance, or swarmed, but it doesn’t matter – he’s a one man army, a killing machine let loose, and there is _nothing_ that can take him out.

Nothing except a sudden lack of opponents, and the subsequent exhaustion of his eco stores.

It takes him several heaving breaths to remember where he is and what he’s doing. Sweat paints Jak’s forehead, and his arms tremble with adrenaline. The light eco left in him furiously tries to repair the damage to his body the dark encouraged, but there’s only enough to close the most heinous of the injuries. A cut on his forehead bleeds steadily into his eye, and he wipes at it with clumsy fingers, missing the presence of a second set of smaller hands. 

A deep, heavy thrum rattles the earth, and then two more. Jak barely keeps his balance. He whips around to find the source, blinking back the steady flow of blood, and swallows hard at the size of the creatures that have landed at the city gates at its ocean border.

The megaliths left by the Precursors are dwarfed by them.

“Jak!” calls the King from a cliffside above him, delivering the final blow to a Dark Maker twice his size, “Climb up the tower! You’re the best gunner we’ve got!”

Far, far above the city center lies a cannon many of Jak’s previous enemies would have killed for – it’s fed by the light eco basin that sits deep beneath Spargus, which makes it dangerous and near-inexhaustible. The setup is too perfect to be coincidence: there’s a light eco-powered weapon to take these dark eco-powered prophesied monsters out, and a time travelling hero available to wield it. Jak’s the champion molded by the past. He’s the last hope of a world under siege, and this is their final stand against the enemy. It makes sense that this is where his time loop ends, and that he’s the man who’s supposed to climb the tower and fire the shots.

But it’s Mar who tries.

“Get off of that, kid!” Jak hollars, running for the tower as fast as his weary legs can carry him. The younger him, still stubborn and innocent and _sure that he can do this_ is already several feet off the ground, clambering hand over hand up the ladder and away from Jak’s pursuit. “You’re gonna get hurt!”

Jak grasps at a rung and nearly slips off with his first step. He impatiently scrubs his bloody hands on his shirt and grabs at it again, hurrying up as quickly as his shaking arms allow. Mar looks back at him several times, ever more worried, ever more panicked. He frees one hand in an attempt to sign, but then squeaks as the pause closes the gap between them.

“I’m you!” the kid shouts instead, his wide eyes pleading, _swearing_ that he has just as much ability as his older self does to save the day.

The irony strikes Jak like a hammer blow to the chest. 

Mar wants what he has.

“ _Yooooou aaaaare nooooooot!_ ” comes a prolonged battle cry, as a flash of orange launches itself off the stone of the tower several feet above them and collides with Mar’s face. The kid’s arms windmill in shock. One of his still-bare feet fumbles off a rung, and then with an alarmed cry Mar pitches backwards.

Jak is already reaching out an arm when Daxter screams, “Catch him, Jak! Catch him, _catch him!_ ” 

He snatches a fistful of Mar’s shirt just as the kid is passing. The force would have pulled his arm from his socket if not for the strength two years of dark eco torture gave him. Jak swings the kid sideways and down, into the ladder behind him, and gives him a moment of fumbling to be sure he’s secure – then immediately searches for his best friend. Daxter’s fearful wailing confirms he’s still got a grip on Mar’s belt.

“Don’t you _ever_ do that again, ya little shit!” the ottsel shouts breathlessly, scaling the kid’s body with ease and accepting Jak’s hand up. “I’ve had enough of a time keeping _this_ dense blockhead from offin’ himself, and I ain’t about to become your babysitter too!”

Mar looks at them both as though he’s been betrayed, at least until he’s asked, “And where the fuck’s yer Daxter, huh?! Get lost and go help somebody who needs it!”

The kid’s head swivels with sudden panic, and he shimmies backwards to Daxter’s further reprimands. He’s nearly at the bottom when the ottsel finally eases up and says, “He’s over by the trucks, ya brat.”

They watch Mar hit the ground running, and then it’s back to the task at hand. Jak clambers up, grip solid on the rungs even as the earth shakes below them. A deafening roar rides in on the sea breeze, echoed by another behind them. Blood drips over Jak’s eye, and a paw and disgusted remark clear it away.

The cannon is a gun – Jak has no problem figuring it out, nor blasting the invading aliens with it. But each pump of the barrel sends a burst of force through his stomach that drives his breath out, and each shot momentarily deafens him. The first time he fires it, it almost throws him off the tower; Jak braces his feet for the following, and roots himself with the steady murmur of, “You got this, baby, take his fuckin’ head off,” in his ear.

When the last monster goes down, Jak nearly goes with it.

The silence that follows its collapse into the rubble of the city nearly stings with how stark it is. Jak’s chest is raw and probably bruised, and his limbs are rattling so badly he has to completely give up standing.

“Could try to glide off here,” he wheezes, crumpling onto his back and staring up at the strangely peaceful blue sky. The low stone parapet is all that keeps his limbs from hanging over free air.

“Stupid way t’die,” Daxter huffs, somehow just as breathless. He parks himself by Jak’s head, brushes away the hair sticking to his face, and then just keeps petting. “Gimme a sec and I’ll fetch Daddy Sandbags. He owes ya, bud – I’ll tell him to come get’cha personally. Carry ya like a sack of potatoes all the way down the ladder.”

“Real distinguished,” Jak chuckles, “Good look for a hero.”

“S’about all you deserve, pretty boy.”

Somewhere far, far below them, waves break over rocks. Jak’s breathing falls in pace with the sound, growing slow and sinking into the lull of the exhaustion and Daxter’s touch. He uses the last bit of his consciousness to turn his head and blink up at his friend, so thankful for his presence that he can feel the distinct force of it even over his cracked ribs.

The sad smile that meets him says _We’re okay._

\- - - -

The moment he’s freshly bandaged and able to walk, Damas asks to see him.

“You and Mar share a striking resemblance, Jak,” says the King of Spargus, studying him from over the fist pressed to his mouth. It is the first and last thing Jak hears clearly – the rest is nearly drowned out by the terrified pounding of his heart.

He nods.

“His young friend Daxter has informed me that you too once chose not to speak.”

Jak nods again.

“Mar was nearly killed in an attempt to climb our city’s central cannon and fight off Spargus’ enemies. I do not begrudge him the warrior’s spirit, but I understand he did so under the strange belief that you and he are the same person.”

Damas stands, and Jak stops breathing.

“My son was stolen from and returned to me after a period of three years, and yet in that time he aged by ten. I cannot claim to comprehend the mechanics that made this happen, but I also cannot deny the evidence placed before me.” He pauses. “Is this resemblance you share mere coincidence, or is there again some greater element at play?”

Jak cannot help his silence. A mutism long since overcome returns in full force, cinching around his vocal chords and clamping his mouth shut. His heart grows tight at the growing frown on the King’s face, and he, against every stubborn desire not to, looks away.

Daxter becomes his voice and his confidence both.

“It ain’t a coincidence. Jak’s a different Mar.”

Damas’ words are slow and considerate; “So he is my son?”

“That isn’t what I said.” Daxter’s tail thumps a steady rhythm on his back, encouraging the same in his heartbeat. “Jak used to be a kid named Mar. Pretty sure he was the kid of a guy who was basically you. Got sent through a time rift to the past, met yours truly, then got warped here. Presto, one express delivery of a hero for all yer world-saving needs.”

Footsteps grow closer. Damas settles in front of them.

“Jak,” he says, “Look at me.”

Daxter nudges him, and so he does. The King’s face is blurry in his burning vision.

“Are you and Mar the same person?”

Jak forces the word out: “No.”

Damas is silent for a moment, looking between the two of them as if he’s working out a puzzle. His second question is more detailed: “Were you once Mar, son of Damas, heir to the throne of Spargus and Haven both?”

“I think so.”

“Then given the choice, would you be so again?”

“ _He ain’t Mar_ ,” says Daxter immediately.

“Then,” Damas says, this time with something that could almost be a smile building at one side of his mouth, “Given the choice, would you be _Jak_ , son of Damas, heir to the thrones of Spargus and Haven both?”

From the direction of the throne comes the faintest sound of shuffling feet. A figure with green hair peeks around it, then lifts a hand to hesitantly sign _Please._

The heat in Jak’s eyes spills over.

\- - - -

Several months later, someone finally thinks to ask, “Why is your Daxter a rat?”

This naturally leads into a flood of indignant clarification from the ottsel in question – who is _not a rodent_ , _thank you very much_ – and a half hour of very decorated storytelling, wherein Jak is both the villain who dunked his best friend into a vat of black tar and a champion who did everything in his power to reverse the change. Damas seems particularly entertained at the idea that while Jak’s reaction to profuse amounts of dark eco was to turn into a horned, fanged, clawed juggernaut, Daxter’s was to become long and lithe and fluffy.

“Why did you not use light eco to change yourself back?” asks the King, leaning on his knuckles and gesturing with a hand, his dinner already finished. Mar and DJ are still busily trading vegetables over to one another’s plates, and Daxter’s has been forgotten in lieu of telling tales.

Guilt squirms in Jak’s gut, abruptly ruining his appetite.

“Eh, tried that,” says Daxter, avoiding Damas’ eyes. “Didn’t do squat. Apparently bathin’ in the black stuff ain’t the same as takin’ a dunk in the white.”

“Nothing happens when I change form either,” Jak adds. “If Dax is sitting on my shoulder, he sorta glows, but that’s it.”

Damas nods thoughtfully. Mar, meanwhile, waves a hand for attention.

 _Have you tried drinking it?_ he asks.

Daxter narrows his eyes. “And _why_ would I do that?”

_Jak changes because the dark eco is inside him, not outside._

“I–” Daxter starts, and then stops. He looks to Jak, who can only stare back. Damas rises to his feet and collects a clay pot off a nearby shelf. As he loosens the cord holding it shut, threads of silvery eco vapour drip out, and automatically gravitate towards the channellers in the room. 

“It may not hurt to try,” he suggests.

“I mean, it could hurt a _whole dang lot,_ ” Daxter argues, but the perk of his ears betrays his curiosity. He steps closer to the pot as Damas sets it down, and cautiously dips a hand into the basin. The energy glimmers in his palm, but causes no harm. “Ugh, it’s squirmy.”

“Dax?” Jak calls.

They lock eyes, and an entire conversation passes in a quick series of expressions. Jak couldn’t put it in exact words, if asked, but the gist is _Gotta try, don’t do it, please be okay, I trust you, bottoms up!_

Daxter tilts his head, throws the eco back, and promptly falls off the table.

Jak’s chair topples backwards. He’s on top of the blazing blob of light that was once his friend within a heartbeat, hands hovering over the contorting shape without clear direction. Damas kneels on the opposite side, pushing at Jak’s shoulder to keep him from scooping up the mass. “Give him space!”

Mar and DJ have thrown themselves over the table to watch, one ducked behind the other in alarm but both too interested for their own good.

Jak doesn’t register he’s yelling his best friend’s name until the shapeless light snaps together in a sharp, choking wheeze of breath and abruptly solidifies. 

Daxter gasps like he’s drowning; Damas shoves him onto one shoulder and slaps his back to start him coughing. Tears and mucus both leak from Daxter’s face, shining with unnatural energy. At the first indication he’s breathing, Jak shoves an arm around his back and pulls him upright.

“Hell of a shot,” Daxter says, abruptly gagging and expelling several more drops of eco. He falls into Jak’s chest, sucking air in with gradually easier breath. Damas lays his outer cloak over his now fur-free and naked body, stoic as ever. A hand eventually rises to reassure them all that, “Show’s over, yer boy’s back in business,” and then is promptly stared at by its owner. Daxter turns his palm over and flexes his fingers, struck silent by the sight of them.

“Dax?”

The face that turns up to his is still a mess, even after Daxter gives it a rough wipe with his arm. Freckles are cluttered across his skin, made wet with spit and eco; his red hair is tangled and overgrown, and unfamiliar where it sprouts from his chin and cheeks. His crooked front teeth stand out when his head flops back against Jak’s arm, lost to laughter.

“That stung like you wouldn’t _believe_ ,” he says, smothering years of frustration and anger and a long-abandoned hope under hysterical giggles. “It was _that easy_ the whole fuckin’ time?!”

“You nearly died,” Damas informs him.

“Ain’t the first time,” Daxter snorts, his uncoordinated – _human –_ hands falling over where Jak’s is covering his chest. His blue eyes flick up, catch Jak’s, and hold, and there’s nothing Jak can do with his relief but fold forward so their foreheads clunk together. 

Two rounds of time travel, countless battles, more suffering than either of them can count, and the only thing Jak can think in the moment is how fortunate he is.

Daxter’s voice becomes a mumble as he adds, “Got what ya wanted, huh, big guy?”

Jak buries the wild laughter against his neck. Daxter’s spindly arms pull him in, smacking his back with clumsy coordination, then abruptly start trying to pull him off.

“Hang on– hang– _c’mere_ ,” is all the warning Jak has before Daxter’s lips are being crushed against his; pressing back is as reflexive as breathing. Wiry fingers scrounge through his hair and buck teeth scrape his mouth as Daxter repeatedly breaks to say, “Been– wantin’– t’do this– fer ten– fuckin’– years–!”

“You and Mar certainly are different people,” muses Damas after a moment, and the amusement in the words has them unravelling from each other’s grip just long enough to follow his gaze. Mar and DJ have put considerable distance between themselves, and their exaggerated barfing noises relay their sentiments on all the PDA.

“This is an embarrassment to rats and Daxters everywhere!” DJ squeals, covering his eyes and shaking his head, ears flapping with refusal. His cheeks are red enough to match his hair.

Daxter laughs so loudly he hurts himself, curling in on his own chest with a cackled yelp of pain.

“Yer just jealous!” he whoops, and then yanks Jak back in.


End file.
